The next day dawned bright and clear and I greeted it with a heartfelt moan. Apparently there is only so much therapy I can take. Still the open road was calling and my correspondent was disinclined to take a message. While I crawled around trying to pick up bits of my psyche that seemed to have fallen off in the night my correspondent dropped her dogs off on an unsuspecting victim, taught her fish how to cook and packed her bags. Fortunately I had already packed my bag or rather I hadn’t bothered to unpack.
With all preparations either completed or forgotten we mounted our mid sized blue steed and set off on our journey. Five minutes down the road to the retired diplomat’s house. After a brief but vicious struggle we hurled the last schnauzer to the curb, packed the retired diplomat’s luggage (six romance novels and three bottles of wine) and fled Hobart while the schnauzers were regrouping for a counter attack.
Full of hope my correspondent pointed the car towards the marginal electorates in the north where by some miracle the roads were better maintained. We were travelling through the largely rural middle of Tasmania which apparently glories in the title of The Heartlands; an area of farms, animals and oddly misspelled towns. I did a double take when we passed through Bagdad.
I know we were in the Heartlands because of a plethora of signs announcing the fact. More surreally the same signs had the words “Drive Journey” added in slightly smaller font underneath. The retired diplomat suggested that the term indicated an acknowledgment that nobody would make the Heartlands the end of their journey. I’d love to have seen her negotiate a missile treaty.
We stopped for lunch at Ross which is a bit of a tourist must see. You know, quaint, colonial, sandstone this and that blah blah blah. I bought a jar of humbugs there. Two days later there are still a few left. My tongue is now black as are my teeth.
Northwards, ever northwards we drove until we were in distinct danger of running out of Tasmania. However just before we drove into the sea or worse, Launceston my correspondent stamped hard on the brake, wrenched the wheel over and sent us skidding onto a new, western, path.
Soon signs appeared saying “Western Highlands” which was an improvement on “The Heartlands” although bizarrely “Drive Journey” remained in place. The roads got narrower and windier, the farms got fewer and patches of actual nature cropped up from time to time. We passed through a forest that had a sign saying “This is a working forest” which I think is code for “Please be patient, we’re chopping it down as fast as we can.”
Our destination was Cradle Mountain an area of breathtaking natural beauty and a Mecca for bushwalking enthusiasts. The retired diplomat and I privately agreed this was the last time we would let my correspondent choose the destination. As we climbed towards the rather nice resort my correspondent had booked at the edge of Cradle Mountain National Park the weather got worse and by the time we arrived the much hyped mountain was obscured by mist and drizzle. And by “obscured” I mean completely hidden. I wouldn’t actually see Cradle Mountain for more than twenty four hours. Visibility was so low we could have been in a leafy suburb of Hobart. Well, a cold, wet leafy suburb of Hobart.
Inside our cabin however all was snug and warm. At least it was once the retired diplomat had adjusted the setting on the heating to “Sahara”. With our cabin warming nicely (and raising the average temperature in the region by a couple of degrees) we had an early dinner. On our return the retired diplomat attempted to negotiate a two hour facial and pampering treatment for herself at the resort spa and wound up booking me an hour massage instead. By this time it was 8.30 at night and we were sick of pretending we were still awake so we crawled under our respective covers, threw them off again because it was so hot and went to sleep.
The next blog entry has wombats in it so stay tuned.
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